A Chair on the Boulevard Part 11

He had made a curious answer. She stared at him, perplexed.

"You can 'imagine' it?"

"Very well."

"But you yourself have experienced such a loss, monsieur?" faltered the widow nervously. Had trouble unhinged his brain?

"No," said the young man; "to speak by the clock, my own loss has not yet occurred."

A brief silence fell, during which she cast uneasy glances towards the door.

He added, as if anxious that she should do him justice: "But I would not have you consider my lamentations premature."

"How true it is," breathed the lady, "that in this world no human soul can wholly comprehend another!"

"Mine is a very painful history," he warned her, taking the hint; "yet if it will serve to divert your mind from your own misfortune, I shall be honoured to confide it to you. Stay, the tenth invitation, which an accident prevented my dispatching, would explain the circ.u.mstances tersely: but I much fear that the room is too dark for you to decipher all the subtleties. Have I your permission to turn up the gas?"

"Do so, by all means, monsieur," said the lady graciously. And the light displayed to her, first, as personable a young man as she could have desired to see; second, an imposing card, which was inscribed as follows:

MONSIEUR ACHILLE FLAMANT, ARTIST,

Forewarns you of the

DEATH OF HIS CAREER

The Interment will take place at the Cafe of the Broken Heart on December 31st.

_Valedictory N.B.--A sympathetic costume Victuals will be appreciated.

7 p.m._

"I would call your attention to the border of cypress, and to the tomb in the corner," said the young man, with melancholy pride. "You may also look favourably on the figure with the shovel, which, of course, depicts me in the act of burying my hopes. It is a symbolic touch that no hope is visible."

"It is a very artistic production altogether," said the widow, dissembling her astonishment. "So you are a painter, monsieur Flamant?"

"Again speaking by the clock, I am a painter," he concurred; "but at midnight I shall no longer be in a position to say so--in the morning I am pledged to the life commercial. You will not marvel at my misery when I inform you that the existence of Achille Flamant, the artist, will terminate in five hours and twenty odd minutes!"

"Well, I am commercial myself," she said. "I am madame Aurore, the Beauty Specialist, of the rue Baba. Do not think me wanting in the finer emotions, but I a.s.sure you that a lucrative establishment is not a calamity."

"Madame Aurore," demurred the painter, with a bow, "your own business is but a sister art. In your atelier, the saffron of a bad complexion blooms to the fairness of a rose, and the bunch of a lumpy figure is modelled to the grace of Galatea. With me it will be a different pair of shoes; I shall be condemned to perch on a stool in the office of a wine-merchant, and invoice vintages which my thirty francs a week will not allow me to drink. No comparison can be drawn between your lot and my little."

"Certainly I should not like to perch," she confessed.

"Would you rejoice at the thirty francs a week?"

"Well, and the thirty francs a week are also poignant. But you may rise, monsieur; who shall foretell the future? Once I had to make both ends meet with less to coax them than the salary you mention. Even when my poor husband was taken from me--heigho!" she raised a miniature handkerchief delicately to her eyes--"when I was left alone in the world, monsieur, my affairs were greatly involved--I had practically nothing but my resolve to succeed."

"And the witchery of your personal attractions, madame," said the painter politely.

"Ah!" A pensive smile rewarded him. "The business was still in its infancy, monsieur; yet to-day I have the smartest clientele in Paris. I might remove to the rue de la Paix to-morrow if I pleased. But, I say, why should I do that? I say, why a reckless rental for the sake of a fashionable address, when the fashionable men and women come to me where I am?"

"You show profound judgment, madame," said Flamant. "Why, indeed!"

"And you, too, will show good judgment, I am convinced," continued madame Aurore, regarding him with approval. "You have an air of intellect. If your eyebrows were elongated a fraction towards the temples--an improvement that might be effected easily enough by regular use of my Persian Pomade--you would acquire the appearance of a born conqueror."

"Alas," sighed Flamant, "my finances forbid my profiting by the tip!"

"Monsieur, you wrong me," murmured the specialist reproachfully. "I was speaking with no professional intent. On the contrary, if you will permit me, I shall take joy in forwarding a pot to you gratis."

"Is it possible?" cried Flamant: "you would really do this for me? You feel for my sufferings so much?"

"Indeed, I regret that I cannot persuade you to reduce the sufferings,"

she replied. "But tell me why you have selected the vocation of a wine-merchant's clerk."

"Fate, not I, has determined my cul-de-sac in life," rejoined her companion. "It is like this: my father, who lacks an artistic soul, consented to my becoming a painter only upon the understanding that I should gain the Prix de Rome and pursue my studies in Italy free of any expense to him. This being arranged, he agreed to make me a minute allowance in the meanwhile. By a concatenation of catastrophes upon which it is unnecessary to dwell, the Beaux-Arts did not accord the prize to me; and, at the end of last year, my parent reminded me of our compact, with a vigour which nothing but the relationship prevents my describing as 'inhuman'. He insisted that I must bid farewell to aspiration and renounce the brush of an artist for the quill of a clerk! Distraught, I flung myself upon my knees. I implored him to reconsider. My tribulation would have moved a rock--it even moved his heart!"

"He showed you mercy?"

"He allowed me a respite."

"It was for twelve months?"

"Precisely. What rapid intuitions you have!--if I could remain in Paris, we should become great friends. He allowed me twelve months'

respite. If, at the end of that time, Art was still inadequate to supply my board and lodging, it was covenanted that, without any more ado, I should resign myself to clerical employment at Nantes. The merchant there is a friend of the family, and had offered to demonstrate his friendship by paying me too little to live on. Enfin, Fame has continued coy. The year expires to-night. I have begged a few comrades to attend a valedictory dinner--and at the stroke of midnight, despairing I depart!"

"Is there a train?"

"I do not depart from Paris till after breakfast to-morrow; but at midnight I depart from myself, I depart psychologically--the Achille Flamant of the Hitherto will be no more."

"I understand," said madame Aurore, moved. "As you say, in my own way I am an artist, too, there is a bond between us. Poor fellow, it is indeed a crisis in your life!... Who put the c.r.a.pe bows on the bottles? they are badly tied. Shall I tie them properly for you?"

"It would be a sweet service," said Flamant, "and I should be grateful.

How gentle you are to me--pomade, bows, nothing is too much for you!"

"You must give me your Nantes address," she said, "and I will post the pot without fail."

"I shall always keep it," he vowed--"not the pomade, but the pot--as a souvenir. Will you write a few lines to me at the same time?"

Her gaze was averted; she toyed with her spoon. "The directions will be on the label," she said timidly.

"It was not of my eyebrows I was thinking," murmured the man.

"What should I say? The latest quotation for artificial lashes, or a development in dimple culture, would hardly be engrossing to you."

"I am inclined to believe that anything that concerned you would engross me."

"It would be so unconventional," she objected dreamily.

"To send a brief message of encouragement? Have we not talked like confidants?"